


The Night of the Flash Bang Terror

by kendermaus



Category: Wild Wild West (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, First Time, Friendship, M/M, cross-dressing, illness due to chemical poisoning, mild medical trauma, passing mention of past abuse (oc)/not graphic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-20
Updated: 2013-12-20
Packaged: 2018-01-05 06:08:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1090533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kendermaus/pseuds/kendermaus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The War Between the States is over, but some people aren’t pleased by the outcome.  Peace isn’t nearly as profitable as war.  Now it’s up to Agents James West and Artemus Gordon to stop a madman from finding a way to restart hostilities in a way no-one ever imagined.  Can they stop a terror they can’t see before it strips away something more precious than they ever imagined?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Night of the Flash Bang Terror

**Author's Note:**

  * For [stuffwelike](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stuffwelike/gifts).



> Author's Notes: MOST IMPORTANT! A BIG thank you to my AMAZING betas: (names redacted until after the author reveal, just in case). This would not have been NEARLY as good without their kind input and support. All remaining mistakes are mine.
> 
> Please note, this one ran away with me (not that that’s a surprise to anyone who knows me) and I LOVED it. The research alone taught me more than I ever imagined. 
> 
> There are bows to Shakespeare, Civil War era theater (Artie’s stage name is a nod to James Morrison Steele MacKaye, a prominent theater man of the time), and a load of other bits and pieces that snuck in along the way. 
> 
> Also, the chemical weapons commented on in the story were actual weapons available at the time of the Civil War. Chemical Warfare was available and several viable options for such attacks were suggested on both the Union and Confederate sides. While the chemical weapons used in the story are completely my own invention, they are in some way inspired by actual technology available at the time. The Fog is a variation on Mustard Gas which was first synthesized in 1822. “Death Angel” is based on Asymptomatic Disease carriers like Typhoid Mary and other plague carriers that seemed healthy but brought illness with them. The “Assassin Formula” is a complete invention and not something available at the time of the Civil War, though it does make for a frightening possibility. Also, “US General Army Order No. 100” was an actual order enacted in 1863 by President Lincoln which outlawed the use of “poison in any manner” during the Civil War.
> 
>  **A note on notations in the text.**  
>  Quotes from Shakespeare are italicized and their source play is noted with a number relating to a footnote in the end notes. (sorry, I’m a bit of an HTML novice and that’s the best I can do.)  
> Dialogue encased in “//” is translated from German. I refuse to mangle the language, so went with this instead.
> 
> Stuffwelike – I hope this is at least CLOSE to what you were looking for. 
> 
> Now, on to the madness. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

The Night of the Flash Bang Terror

The night sky was shrouded with clouds so thick they blocked out even the light of the waxing half-moon. Mary Jennings wrapped her shawl tighter around her shoulders and walked a little bit faster. She wanted to run, the darkness and fog making her uneasy, but to do so courted injury and she couldn’t risk that. So she gripped her lantern tighter, pulled her heavy shawl more firmly around her body, and walked with quick but deliberate care. She was nearly home and she knew that her sister would have a warm pot of rabbit stew waiting on the hob and that her nephew would be finding ways to stay awake so he could hear whatever news she brought from the fort. She’d never understand the boy’s fascination with the soldiers and their stories. But then, she could forgive him, he was too young to realize the horrors the war had brought. To him the stories were tales of adventure and valor, not recollections of death and turmoil that were still far too fresh in his mother’s and aunt’s minds.

She shook off the darkening thoughts. The war was over, not without cost, but hopefully now they could start to heal. She and Sally had lost two brothers and little Jonathan had lost a father, but they still had the homestead and each other. They would survive and life would go on. 

A sharp, high pitched whistle cut through the usual night noises. Mary stopped, frozen like a frightened rabbit, listening closely for anything familiar in the dark. The animals were silent, even the crickets were still. Then an all too familiar sound assaulted her ears – the sharp report of exploding artillery. Her first instinct was to run, explosions meant battles, battles meant getting caught in the crossfire regardless of which side you supported - but running led to mistakes. She took a moment to listen, to see if she heard anything else. The night was too quiet, but she didn’t hear any other sounds of battle. Reassured, she began moving once more towards home - home and safety, where there were guns and locks and a cellar they could retreat to if something got too close. 

She could feel the wind shift, an unnatural breeze that whipped her skirts against her legs. She risked a glance back towards the fort, gasping as a sickly green mist seemed to slowly swallow up the distant trees. She dropped her lantern, drew up her skirts and ran as fast as she could. She had to get home. She’d be safe at home. She spared a quick prayer for the poor souls at the fort, and an even more fervent prayer to protect the family she had left.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

James West brushed the dust from his coat and waited for his partner, Artemus Gordon, to join him. The last three weeks had been filled with a combination of paperwork, Artie disappearing into his workshop for hours on end only to emerge with some new device or concoction for Jim to ‘test’ for him, and quiet evenings reading or playing chess until bed. While the down time had been appreciated Jim was more than ready to get back to work. Rest was all fine and good, but Jim was, at heart, a man of action.

A large, familiar hand settled on his shoulder. “Well, Jim, my boy, it doesn’t do to keep the general waiting.”

Jim met Artie’s smile with an easy smile of his own. “I wasn’t the one who insisted on changing his waistcoat three times before leaving the train car.”

“One should always look one’s best when meeting with one’s superiors, Mr. West,” Artie said smartly, tugging said waistcoat down and shooting Jim a teasing wink.

Jim shook his head in bemusement and knocked on the door to the home where they were to meet their contact. The doorman answered promptly, and then led them to a comfortable sitting room where General Marcum was already waiting for them. The general was an older, distinguished looking gentleman whose only concession to age was his ever present walking stick. He rose as they entered.

“Mr. West. Mr. Gordon.” He shook both their hands and gestured for them to take a seat. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you both, though I wish it were under better circumstances.” He settled back behind his desk and drew a messenger envelope from a locked desk drawer. “How much were you told about our situation?”

“Only that there had been some attacks locally that have Washington concerned,” Jim answered. “The information was… sparse, compared to what we’re normally given. We were told to contact you once we reached town and you’d fill us in further.”

Marcum nodded, slowly opening the envelope and placing its contents on the desk before him. “I’m sorry for the secrecy, gentlemen, but we’ve already lost three good men to this assignment and there are concerns about espionage. Washington was reluctant to get involved at first,” he said with a sigh, frustration evident in his tone. “But with this latest attack, even those dunderheads could no longer ignore what was happening. Something big is in the works, gentlemen, and it needs to be stopped before more people die.”

“What attacks are you referring to, Sir?” Artemus asked gently. “And while I often agree with your assessment of our colleagues in Washington, I find it difficult to believe they would ignore a situation as dire as you suggest.”

Marcum snorted. “They would gladly ignore such a situation if acknowledging it made them face their own follies,” he countered sharply. He rubbed a hand over his face and sighed. “Forgive me, gentlemen. It’s just been a very long six months.” He fanned out a stack of letters and photographs. “Are either of you gentlemen familiar with the name Enoch Follard?”

Jim shook his head; the name meant nothing to him. Artie, however…

“Enoch Follard, the Industrialist.”

Jim had never heard Artie’s voice hold quite so much contempt. He turned to face his partner, curious.

“The very one, Mr. Gordon,” Marcum confirmed.

“Artie?”

Artemus turned to James, his face carefully blank. “Enoch Follard made his fortune in the war, Jim, selling anything and everything a fighting man might need. He didn’t care which side a body fought for, as long as his price was met.” He gave a mirthless laugh. “Unfortunately, he was careful and no one could ever prove he was supplying both sides. Even if they could, I don’t know that anyone would have done anything. When families were watching sons and fathers choose different sides, all they cared about was making sure each had the best chance of coming home.” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “I never met the man, but every scavenger, profiteer, and Quartermaster knew his name. And a lot of local Confederate supporters swore by his supplies.” 

Marcum nodded. “It was worse than that, Mr. Gordon. Mr. Follard sold more than just standard armaments and supplies.” He pushed a photograph towards them. “He also sold homemade Greek fire, tainted medication, and experimental explosive devices that shot bits of metal and corrosive liquid on whatever poor soul got too close.”

Jim glanced at the picture and paled at the image of a young woman who’d apparently been one of those poor souls. “While war profiteering is a heinous occupation, sir,” he said, pushing the photo away, “He’s hardly the only person who turned the misfortune of others into profit.”

“You’re correct, Mr. West,” the General conceded. “However, I and several others believe that Mr. Follard didn’t stop his business when the peace papers were signed.” He handed over a stack of images and a lengthy report. “This is the last report I received from a young man we’d sent in to gather information on Mr. Follard and his activities. It hints that Mr. Follard is doing his best to encourage discontent in some of the more radical Confederate sympathizers and is offering some very frightening new weapons in the process.”

The first image in the stack would haunt James for years. It showed the inside of a small fort, the ground littered with pain contorted bodies, their sightless eyes unnerving even to a seasoned soldier. Burns and large welts could be clearly seen on their exposed skin yet their uniforms and weapons showed no sign of damage.

“This was delivered four nights ago,” the General told them. “Everyone in the outpost was killed by a ‘creeping green fog’ that according to one poor soul who lived outside the walls, ‘burned everyone it touched’ without leaving a mark on the buildings or armaments. The eyewitness died a few hours after talking to the investigator, coughing blood like he had advanced consumption, yet he’d been healthy just the day before.” Marcum looked at them both. “The man looking into this for me disappeared the following night and this was sent to me by his wife, my daughter, Amanda. He claimed he had found a link back to Mr. Follard that he was going to be looking into. He hasn’t been heard from since.”

Jim looked over at Artie, remembering a quote his mother had often used on an impatient and young James West. “Be careful what you wish for.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

James looked over the crush of well-dressed theater goers and held back a long suffering sigh. While the performance had been good, especially for a small traveling company, Jim was more than ready to leave. The theater was hot and stifling even in the cool autumn weather and the noisy jostling of the crowd made him uneasy. He leaned against the wall and cast his tired gaze toward his companion.

“Artemus,” he began in his most urbane tone, “while I do appreciate your efforts to expand my theatrical experiences. Remind me again why we’re here rather than following up on… other avenues.”

“To gain allies in our cause, Jim my boy,” he said, turning from his study of the crew carefully dismantling the stage now that the play’s run was over, at least for this venue. He studied the thinning crowd with a disarming smile. “Shall we traverse these hallowed halls now that a majority of the crush has passed? I have some people I’d like you to meet.”

Jim shook his head at Artie’s playful turn of phrase, wondering just what had his partner in such high spirits. “Lay on, Macduff,” he said with a grin, gesturing for Artie to take the lead and willingly following in the taller man’s wake.

The small theater was a veritable warren of hallways, doors, and makeshift rooms set up with folding screens and brightly colored fabric. Actors and stage hands moved in an intricate dance that made James dizzy as he tried to follow it. Artie, however, moved through the chaos with the grace of someone long accustomed to ‘traversing’ the ebb and flow of the theater’s back stage. After offering his third apology in as many minutes for stepping exactly the wrong way at the wrong moment, Jim was nearly ready to leave the ‘gaining of allies’ to Artie. However, Artie had apparently reached his destination, a door that, to Jim, looked no different than any of the others they’d already passed. He wondered what Artie saw that he didn’t.

Artie’s rapped sharply on the door frame, his body blocking Jim’s view of what lay on the other side of the partially opened door.

 _“Oh happy torment,”_ the older man quoted at whoever stood beyond the door, _“when my torturer_  
 _Doth teach me answers for deliverance!_  
 _But let me to my fortune and the caskets.”_ 1

Jim recognized the passage as Shakespeare just from the way Artie spoke. He was uncertain what play, or exactly why Artemus was quoting it now, but he assumed his partner had his reasons. A husky, feminine voice drifted out of the dressing room, answering both Artemus’ quote and Jim’s unspoken question.

_“Away then! I am lock’d in one of them_  
 _If you do love me, you will find me out.”_ 1

Jim stood, stunned, as a young woman, one of the actresses from the evening’s performance if he wasn’t mistaken, threw open the door and wrapped herself around Artemus. His partner’s deep, rich laugh sounded over the din of the back stage as he hugged the young lady close.

“Why didn’t you come backstage earlier?” the actress scolded. “We could have used your skills tonight. I was certain Patrick would come to blows with the local leading man.” She darted a glance around before continuing. “Patron’s favorite or not, the man’s hopeless when it comes to taking direction and I’ve seen roustabouts with better acting skills.”

Artemus pressed a familiar kiss to the young lady’s forehead, wrapping an arm around her slender shoulders and turning them towards Jim. “Portia, my dear, promise me you’ll never change.” He motioned Jim closer. “James West, may I introduce one of the ingénues of Monsieur Francois’ Traveling Shakespeare Company, late of Chicago, St. Louis and Kansas City…”

“PORTIA!” a strident female voice called from down the hallway, interrupting Artemus’ introduction. “Mr. Franks is looking for you. He needs to know if you’ve seen… ARTEMUS!” The second young woman threw herself into Artemus’ arms, her arms wrapping around Artie’s neck in an exuberant embrace. “He said you were coming. Why didn’t you write us? You promised you’d write us. We were so worried.”

“Marie,” Portia interrupted gently. “Artemus was just introducing me to his friend, Mr. West, who I fear we may have just scandalized.”

“Nonsense, Miss Portia,” Jim reassured, drawing her gloved hand to his lips and kissing the back of it lightly. “I’m much harder to scandalize, I assure you. And any friend of Artie’s is a welcome addition to my circle of friends, especially when they’re as lovely as the pair of you.”

“Oh he is a smooth talker isn’t he, Artemus?” Marie said with a mischievous grin.

“You have no idea.”

Marie moved to Portia’s side, linking her arm with the other young lady’s. Side by side the two couldn’t be more different. While of a similar size, Portia was clearly the more delicate of the pair. Wide, doe brown eyes were framed by thick lashes, giving her a waif-like air when coupled with her shy smile. Her high cheekbones were touched with just the lightest hint of rouge, adding to the porcelain perfection of her skin. A few golden brown curls escaped the intricate knot of ribbons and pins to fall across her forehead with an artlessness that was too deliberate to be accidental. Marie, by contrast, was all lush curves and careless, artifice free beauty. Her blue eyes were bright with mirth and mischief and her nose and cheeks were dusted with light brown freckles that she made no effort to hide. Her blonde hair was a riot of curls that had clearly defeated her attempt to tame it with ribbons and pins but she made no effort to repair it. Yet, for all their differences, they clearly suited each other’s company.

Neither woman missed Jim’s appreciative regard. Marie blew a stray curl out of her eyes with a giggle. “Well, as I have answered Mr. Franks’ question about whether you’d seen Artemus, I believe my errand is nearly done. “ She turned to Artie. “Mr. Franks is waiting for you in the office at the end of that hall,” she pointed back the way she came, “and he is expecting you.”

Artie nodded in acknowledgment, motioning for James to follow him.

“Portia and I will be waiting for your return,” Marie continued before they’d moved too far. “It’s been far too long since we’ve had the chance to step out in our finest, and I can think of no better company,” she added with a playful wink. “Besides, I seem to remember a certain leading man promising us dinner the next time we were all in the same place.”

“I do believe I remember something of the sort,” Artie acknowledged. “And I learned long ago, never to argue with a lady of the theater.” He kissed the offered cheeks before reluctantly pulling away. “But first, to business. James?”

“Ladies,” Jim nodded, returning Marie’s bright smile and offering an encouraging one to the shy Portia. He was suddenly looking forward to that late dinner Artie had promised him.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

“I still don’t like it, Artie,” Jim said again. “If Enoch Follard is as dangerous as all of you say, you shouldn’t be going in alone.”

Artie sighed, resigned to having this discussion, yet again. He turned from his mirror where he was applying ‘Horatio Mackaye’ and studied his agitated partner. “James. I won’t be alone. I’ll have all of Patrick Franks’ troop guarding my back. And while I don’t know all of them, I do know that I can trust over ninety percent of them. The other ten percent are nothing more than we’ve had to deal with before on assignment.” He locked eyes with Jim. “So why is this time making you so jumpy?”

Jim sighed and slumped down into a chair. “I don’t know, Artie. I just have a bad feeling about this.” He shook his head at his own folly. “Are you sure the troop couldn’t use another stage hand?”

“I’m sorry, James.” Artie turned back to putting the finishing touches on his disguise. “Follard has offered his own people for the heavy lifting, set construction and the other jobs that the usual stage hands would provide. The rumors of his paranoia were, if anything, understated.”

“So, I’ll go in as something else.”

Artie bowed his head, touched by Jim’s concern but frustrated all the same. “James,” he began, fond exasperation coloring his tone. “While I know you capable of any number of things, passing as a seasoned member of a traveling repertory theater isn’t one of them.” He held up a hand, forestalling the argument he could feel building. “Can you call up, at a moment’s notice, enough Shakespearian scenes to fill several hours of performance? Can you, after only a few hours practice, produce a scene that looks as natural as if you and your troop members have performed it hundreds of times together?” He sighed. “We have no idea what Follard will request during our performance. Consequently, the company is going to have to be ready for anything. While you are remarkably quick on your feet both physically and intellectually, James,” he soothed, “I fear that this particular endeavor may be beyond your skills.” He rose and moved to stand before Jim. He placed a hand on the younger man’s shoulder. “Trust me to do my job, Jim.”

“I do trust you, Artie,” Jim said firmly. “Just not sure I like you going in there without me guarding your back,” he offered sheepishly.

Artemus chuckled, squeezing Jim’s shoulder. “This isn’t my first time you know, either on the stage or on a solo mission.”

Jim had the decency to look chagrined. “I know. I know. I just… Just be careful.”

“Why, my dear Mr. West,” ‘Horatio Mackaye’ reassured, his face splitting into a wide, showman’s smile. “I am nothing if not careful.”

Jim’s eyes locked with Artie’s. “I’m serious, Artemus. Please watch your back in there. We don’t know what Follard’s plans are or how he’s connected with that green fog.” Jim suppressed a shiver as an image of Artemus and the girls covered in burns and blisters rose unbidden in his mind. “Be careful.”

Artemus sobered, sensing James’ unease. “I promise to be especially vigilant, James. I swear it.”

“Thank you.” Jim poured them both a measure of whiskey, Artie accepting his gratefully, before settling onto the settee. “Now, introduce me to this new,” he gestured at Artie’s disguise, “actor you’ve created.”

Artie grinned. “My dear man,” ‘Horatio’ began, “you are in for a rare treat…”

Jim watched, shoving aside his misgivings and concentrating on the fact that his partner was a consummate actor and a damn fine agent. But even that couldn’t completely quell the foreboding in his gut.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The next morning came far too early for Jim’s liking. His dreams had only intensified his anxiety about this mission, haunting, too real images of Artie dying at the hands of a creeping, unearthly fog while Jim stood by, helpless. Dreams where he danced with first Portia and then Marie, only to have them turn into blackened corpses before the music ended. The lack of sleep had made him cross that morning, and he’d ended up apologizing to Artie more than once. Luckily, Artie understood him, often better than he understood himself, and had once more reassured Jim that he would be extra careful when out of Jim’s sight. Jim had blushed a bit at being found out so easily, which had only made Artie laugh, but he was the first to admit the promise had eased his worry – a bit.

He’d watched as Horatio Mackaye came to life and stepped from the Wanderer with a small steamer trunk and a jaunty wave to Patrick Franks who was waiting to collect him. It amazed Jim just how completely Artie changed with each new character he assumed. Horatio Mackaye was little more than artistically added grey in Artie’s dark curls, a few well-placed shadows to accentuate Artie’s strong jaw, and a more colorful wardrobe. Yet a subtle change in stance made Artie seem a few inches shorter, an added swagger to his walk made him seem more arrogant and self-possessed while an easy smile kept him from being too imposing. The final change was only evident when Artie spoke, his tone sharper edged, more clipped with just a touch of European culture that Jim couldn’t place. If he hadn’t seen Artie’s transformation, he’d have been hard pressed to identify his friend, at least from a distance.

Artie would be fine. 

As Jim swung himself up into the saddle, he kept telling himself that. Artie would be fine. He turned his horse away from where Artie was loading up into Franks’ wagon and headed off to see a young lady about a creeping green fog.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Enoch Follard wasn’t anything like Artie expected. Instead of the larger than life, loud and brash upstart, Follard was a quiet, subdued man with thinning hair and shrewd green eyes. His deep voice would have done any actor proud but seemed a bit out of place coming from his 5’3” frame. A jagged scar ghosted down the left side of his face, a remnant of his dangerous past, but his mild Southern accent and genteel manner easily overrode any unease caused by the grisly memento. Only the fact that Follard was ‘new money’ kept him from the acceptance he so desperately craved from the upper crust ‘old money’ families. Artie thought Follard might even manage to overcome that obstacle given enough time. However, Artie didn’t intend to give him that time. 

If he hadn’t already known of Follard’s past, Artie might have fallen for the unassuming manner and easy smiles as well. But, after so many years studying human nature and the small tells that gave away carefully hidden secrets, Artie wasn’t taken in. Those green eyes watched everyone, cataloging and weighing worth, while assessing dangers and potential allies. The European cut of Follard’s coat hid the multiple weapons the man carried, unless you knew what to look for – which Artie did. Artie couldn’t help but wonder what a self-titled ‘virtuous man of leisure’ needed with multiple knives and carefully hidden guns – or what the people Follard was trying to impress would think if they knew.

He took another sip of the too sweet punch and watched as Patrick danced Marie across the dance floor. Follard had insisted that a party was the only way to welcome such an auspicious traveling troop as Monsieur Francois’. The fact that it gave Follard an excuse to open his home and attempt to impress the local upper crust with his savoir faire was simply a lucky coincidence. At least that was what Follard would have Patrick Franks aka Monsieur Francois believe. Patrick wasn’t fooled, and Artie doubted that the more observant of the invited locals were either. But, like most in the post war times, they weren’t fool enough to pass up plentiful food, moderately good wine, and a chance to dress in their finest and celebrate life.

“Are you not enjoying yourself, Mr. Mackaye?”

Artie pulled up his Horatio Mackaye rueful smile for their host. “Please, Mr. Follard, after all you’re doing to give our little company a place to not only perform, but to stay while we do so, I insist you call me Horatio.” He took another sip of his punch. “And it’s not that I’m not enjoying myself, Sir. It’s just becoming distressingly apparent that I’m not as young as I once was.”

Follard offered Artie an understanding smile. “None of us are, Mr....” he paused at Artie’s quirked eyebrow. “Horatio,” he amended. Follard joined Artie looking out over the assembled crowd. “Though there is something to be said for the wisdom of age over the folly and exuberance of youth.”

Artie chuckled. “You have a valid point, sir. Well met.” He clinked his glass against Follard’s. They stood in companionable silence for a long while, just watching the swirling mass of dancers. Artie gave a not entirely faked yawn. “I fear, perhaps, I should retire if I am to be of any worth to Monsieur Francois tomorrow.”

“ _To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,"_ 2 Follard quoted.

“I would hope that we would prove to be more than a tale told by an idiot, Sir,” Artie replied with a cheeky grin.

“I have it on very good authority that you will, Mr. Mackaye,” Follard reassured. “Forgive me. Horatio.” He moved closer. “Do you, by chance, play chess?”

“I have been known to from time to time, though I fear my skills may be a bit rusty.”

Follard nodded. “Might I convince you to join me for a game while you and the troop are here? It’s been far too long since I’ve had someone to pit myself against and I feel you and I would be… reasonably well matched.”

The turn of phrase immediately set Artie on edge but he kept his expression carefully mild. “If Monsieur Francois feels he can spare me for a time, I would be honored.”

Follard’s smile widened in pleasure. “Until tomorrow then,” the small man acknowledged. “Sleep well, Horatio. _And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest._ ” 3

Artie shook the offered hand easily. “You as well, sir,” he offered. He took his leave with an easy smile and a careful nod at Marie as he passed. The frisson of unease begun by Jim the night before strengthened with each step closer to the quiet bunkhouse the troop had been given for their stay. He wondered just how much this assignment was going to cost them when all was said and done.

He stopped at the door to the bunkhouse and looked up at the night sky. He wasn’t an overly religious man, but it was said the Almighty looked after children and fools… and hopefully spies working on the side of the angels. “St. Joshua. St. Genesius,”4 he whispered, calling on two saints that dear Lady Genevieve had taught a young, green actor about a lifetime ago (along with other, less holy lessons). “If you’d both be so kind to put in a kind word for an… intelligence man and an old, motley fool, I’d be ever so grateful. I fear we may need all the assistance we can procure before this is all said and done.” He wasn’t sure the quiet prayer would do any good, but it never hurt to stack the deck in ones favor when given a chance. With a quick nod of the head to the twinkling expanse above, he entered the bunkhouse, brought up one of the lamps, and prepared himself for bed. He settled beneath the blankets, relaxing as best he could. Tomorrow was another day and knew he’d need his wits about him… for more than just that promised game of chess.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Patrick Franks was an old friend who knew Artie’s skills in both acting and subterfuge. They had worked together before the war, using the cover of ‘Monsieur Francois’ Acting Troop’ to assist in the smuggling of families and information out of Confederate territories and into the North. It had been dangerous work, but something that Patrick had felt very strongly about, and Artie had agreed. Now, that familiarity served Artie well. Patrick gave Artie the earliest rehearsal time and scenes that Artie could do in his sleep if need be. Therefore, Artie was easily free for most of the day to ‘entertain’ their benefactor.

Follard had been pleased to sit and watch the early rehearsals, to offer suggestions on what the towns-folks might be best interested in. Artie shouldn’t have been surprised by how adept Follard was at reading his potential audience, but it was a bit unnerving to hear how easily Follard broke down the upper echelons of the town into such precise categories: the lord mayor who would want to hear about the value of good leadership and justice, but might need to be reminded of the dangers of pride and corruption; the ‘founding family’ who could learn a few lessons from Lear or Prospero and Caliban; the star crossed lovers from feuding families that were headed for a Romeo and Juliet ending if their families didn’t realize just what was happening beneath their very noses. Each observation was met with another possible scene or a possible sonnet or soliloquy to be performed until the program for the performance was complete. The company would stay for three days, performing on two of the three evenings with the local troop providing an evening of song and melodrama between the two more formal theater evenings. 

By lunchtime, however, Follard’s interest had begun to wane and he claimed the promised chess game from ‘Horatio’ who joined him willingly. Follard had been correct, they were very evenly matched. The game had been declared a draw, though Artie could have pressed his advantage and won – but decided that such a move was not in the mission’s best interest. While Follard could handle an equal, Artie doubted he would be so calm if bested.

“Good match, sir,” Artie congratulated, leaning back in the chair. “It’s been far too long since I’ve enjoyed a good chess game.”

“I’m pleased to oblige.” Follard echoed Artie’s posture, sipping at his drink and studying Artie intently. 

Artie kept his expression carefully neutral.

“Horatio,” Follard begain, “how long have you travelled with Monsieur Francois?”

Artie made a show of contemplating the question. “A fair while now. I started with the troop before the war, shortly after coming back from London. He provided me a place to practice my art and earn a modest stipend so that I could find a more… permanent place.”

Follard nodded. “Would you say he is an honorable man?”

“Just what are you implying, sir?” Artie’s natural accent thickened, his voice growing cold and dangerous.

Follard raised a placating hand. “I mean no disrespect, Mr. Mackaye. It’s just that I’ve noticed how,” he paused, clearly searching for a descriptor that would not heighten his guest’s ire. “very young, some of the women in the troop are. I would hate to think that Monsieur Francois would allow anything… untoward to happen to the young ladies in question.”

Artie couldn’t help the knowing chuckle. He’d seen Patrick beat a man near to death for being ‘untoward’ to a young actress in the troop. Then he’d made the cad apologize not only to the young lady in question, but also to the rest of the female members of the troop – _before_ he’d get the cad seen to by the doc. “Monsieur Francois would never risk those delicate beauties, even if it meant losing a profit or a sponsor,” he said honestly. “He’d not risk any of this rag tag little family he’s gathered.”

Follard nodded, contemplative. “I had hoped that was the case. It’s just. I saw so many unscrupulous men during the war, men willing to sell out even their own flesh and blood for little more than scraps.” He gave Artie a seemingly sincere smile. “It’s reassuring to know that honorable men still exist to help rebuild our fractured nation.”

Had Artie not known Follard’s history, had he not suspected that the man before him was a snake in tailored suits, he might have believed the sentiment Follard offered. However, the smile was too calculatingly mild and it sent shivers down his spine. He vowed to keep a closer eye on the rest of the troop and warn Patrick as well. He was uncertain how best to respond to the lies being fed him. Luckily he was saved from having to make any response at all.

“Enough disheartening talk,” his host said, reaching out and refilling Artie’s glass. “Another game?”

Artie saluted Follard with the glass. “Excellent idea, sir,” he agreed amicably. He sipped at his drink, the amber liquid a pleasant burn as it slid down his throat. “The board is yours.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The evening’s performance had gone well but Artie’s throat was making it clear he’d been off the stage for far too long. He sipped the warmed lemonade that Portia had brought him and relaxed as best he could. He was sure he was missing something. He was fairly certain he knew where the general’s son-in-law was being held, and that the young man was still alive. He had a good idea where Follard’s weapons and labs were but not who manned them or what they were producing. He had a feeling that these three nights of performances were instrumental in whatever Follard had planned, but he was damned if he could figure out how. Tonight’s crowd had been mostly comprised of general town-folk, both local and from the surrounding areas, local VIPs and a few obviously well off gentlemen that kept themselves carefully separate from the locals (though Artie only noticed it because he was used to looking for unusual behaviors). But nothing untoward had happened. Follard hadn’t singled out any particular group or pulled anyone aside to speak privately. So if he was using the evening to further his ‘business’ Artie was hard pressed to see how.

“Deep thoughts there, son.”

Artie turned and looked at Patrick Franks. “Not especially,” he answered ruefully. He gestured to the chair beside him and drew out a thin cigar for his friend. “What am I missing, Patrick? I’m missing something important, here.”

“You mean beyond your voice, my friend?” Patrick teased gently. He settled back in the chair and lit the cigar, using the time to ponder what Artie was honestly asking. They’d filled him in as much as they could, knowing that with Patrick’s past he could be a strong ally. “He’s a man with a lot to hide, Horatio. He’s performing for everyone and for someone specific, but he’s being very sly about it. It’s like those old foremen who’d play up to the masters while working to undermine their authority with the slaves. Now, they worked in our favor when we were getting people out, but they trod some dangerous boards while they did it. He’s got that same look in his eyes, weighing everyone and trying to see who would be the most advantageous to approach.”

Artie nodded. “But who did he decide on?”

Patrick took a deep draw on his cigar. He met Artie’s eyes as he released the smoke. “I don’t think he has, not yet.”

Artie thought a moment, running the events of the evening over again in his mind. “A buyers' gathering? But what is he selling and how is he making that known to the buyers?” His eyes widened. “He already has. The fort… it was his demonstration for the sellers. The rumors said he was stirring up trouble, courting extremists who weren’t happy with how things ended. What if he’d already shown them what he could do and now he’s letting it be known it’s available to the highest bidder?”

“Alright. That would make sense, but why three days? Why here? Why now?”

“That’s what I need to find out.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Artie’s throat wasn’t any better the following day and he was glad for the respite the troop would have while the local performers took the stage. Portia and Marie were assisting with two of the melodrama pieces and several other members were assisting in ‘chorus’ roles as needed. He was sitting, watching as the local director laid out the night’s performance when the sound of shouting and fast approaching horses caught his attention. A boy of no more than thirteen, if Artie was to guess, reined in a pair of spirited bays while hollering for ‘Doc Matthews’.

One of the actors broke away from the others, quickly walking to the boy’s side. Artie, along with everyone else, listened intently.

“Calm down, Tommy,” the actor, Doc Matthews, apparently, directed. He took hold of the reins, stilling the horses. “Now what’s happened?”

“It’s Polly, sir. She’s real sick,” the boy all but sobbed. “She can’t breathe and she’s got these big ol’ blisters around her mouth like what I had after I got into that patch of poison ivy this summer. She’s hurting real bad, doc. You gotta come. Pa’s worried about her and the baby. Hurry. Please.”

The doctor was in the saddle before the boy finished talking. “Let’s go, Tommy. I’ll grab my bag on the way to your house. It’s gonna be fine. You’ve done well, boy. Just keep calm a little longer for me.” The boy nodded and the pair turned and left the courtyard at a gallop.

Artie moved to stand with the stunned local troop. “Is everything alright?”

One of the middle aged women of the troop shrugged. “Polly’s been having a lot of trouble with this babe. That’s why she didn’t come last night, too hard to get around. With her husband still missing after the peace, she’s been struggling. Don’t seem fair for her to have to face this all alone.”

“You know her Pa ain’t gonna leave her side,” another woman scolded. “After her momma died, he’s doted on Polly. He won’t let nothing happen to her if he can help it. But some things don’t respect a man’s rank, and it sounds like this may be one of them.

“And her father…,” Artie prompted.

“The right honorable Judge Breckenridge. But that judgeship didn’t save his poor wife,” the first woman pronounced sagely. “Seems like that poor man’s cursed.”

Artie made a non-committal sound as his brain started putting pieces together to form a very horrifying puzzle. He had a suspicion, but he’d need more information. He quietly slipped away from the others. He needed to see if anyone else had come down ill after the night’s performance. If so… well, he refused to borrow trouble, but he was already composing a telegraph for both Jim and the General. Something was definitely rotten in the state of Denmark. 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Artie felt his anxiety grow as the crowd for the evening’s entertainment filtered in. The primary gossip was of the handful of town-folk who had taken ill during the night. Several blamed the chill autumn air, some blamed Follard’s refreshments (though never in Follard’s hearing). Artie had a sneaking suspicion the latter might be closer to the truth than they realized. Begging off the night’s festivities because of his ‘ailing vocal chords’, Artie headed to the bunkhouse and made a show of settling in for the evening. He waited until he heard the opening applause of the crowd before slipping from the building and heading to the outer areas of Follard’s home. Taking care not to be seen, he began investigated the two out buildings he’d spotted earlier. The first was exactly what he’d expected, a reinforced cell to hold a battered but alive young man that Artie was fairly certain was the General’s son-in-law. He studied the layout of the small building, walking around it slowly, watching for guards or traps. There were none, which was… concerning. Follard wasn’t the type of man to risk losing such a valuable hostage. There had to be more to this.

“Hello? Is someone there?” The voice was quiet but steady. “If you’re there, please don’t come closer. It’s not safe.”

Artie moved closer, keeping to the shadows. “Who are you, son?”

“A monster,” was the anguished response. “Please stay away.”

“It’s all right,” Artie reassured, moving closer to the window. “Everyone’s at the main house. Just you and me out here. Nothing to be afraid of.”

“You don’t understand, sir,” the young man replied. “It’s not safe for you to be here. They… they’ve done something to me. They’ve made me into an angel of death. You have to leave before I kill you as well.”

“What’s your name?” Artie asked gently, trying to quell the rising panic he could hear in the other’s voice.

“Bartholomew Phillips.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Mister Phillips,” Artie said lightly as he cautiously moved closer still, attempting to get a better look at the young man. “Call me Horatio. We have friends in common, I believe, friends who are mighty worried about you.”

Bartholomew gave a mirthless laugh. “Better they think I’m dead.”

“Now none of that, boy,” he chided. “You said they’ve done something to you. Would that be Mr. Follard?”

“Yes. He and his resident madman.” The young man turned, clearly startled to find Artie so close. He quickly shifted away from the window. “Please. Please don’t get to close. I’ve already killed three men and I don’t want to add another to the list of my sins.”

“Killed how?”

“I don’t know,” was the dejected answer. “Follard and his ‘doctor’ injected me with some vile concoction four nights ago. Then he threw a poor boy in here with me. We talked. I let the child have my meal when it was delivered, and two hours later he was dead. I assumed it was poison at the time. Now, I know better.” He sighed, turning troubled gray eyes on Artie. “The next man put in with me kept his distance and Follard’s doctor stood just outside the cell and watched, like he was waiting for something. The man pleaded to be released, like he knew what was going to happen.” He scrubbed a hand over his unshaven face. “Maybe he did.”

“What happened?”

“He started having trouble breathing, just like the boy had.” He turned away from Artie. “Then he started to shake and cough. I tried to help him. I swear to you I tried, but every time I got near him he’d start screaming for me to get back, begging the doctor to let him out. It took most of the day for him to die.” He shivered, wrapping his arms around his slender body. “And that doctor just watched, writing down things and not saying a word.”

Artie had a horrible suspicion he knew exactly what the supposed doctor had been recording. Scientific trials. Never had he been more disgusted. “You said there were three,” he asked reluctantly, seeing how much it disturbed Bartholomew to discuss the deaths, but needing to know what they might have been testing for. “What happened with the third?”

Another bitter laugh. “He was a fool. He came into my cell last night willingly. I begged him to leave, to keep his distance. But he just laughed, saying he wasn’t afraid. He sat down on my bunk, watched the doctor, who was there again with his damned book making notes of all that happened.” He leaned back against the cell bars opposite the window, meeting Artie’s eyes. “I thought maybe this would be different. He took two meals here, shared them with me like he had nothing to fear. I thought maybe whatever they’d done to me had worn off, maybe he’d be safe. I drifted off while he talked to the doctor, answering questions in a language I didn’t understand. 

“I woke up at sunrise today to find him struggling to breathe with large blisters around his mouth and on his hands. He was clutching at his throat and looking at the doctor with wild eyes, begging.” Tears fell down the young man’s cheeks. “It took him over an hour to die, and it wasn’t an easy death. I couldn’t do anything, nothing at all. The doctor actually _*thanked*_ me when they took out his body. Can you believe that? Three people died just from being in the same cell with me and he thanked me like I’d just done something wonderful.”

“Not wonderful,” Artie murmured mostly to himself, “useful.”

“What do you mean?” Bartholomew asked warily. “Useful how?”

“I think they were testing antidotes to whatever they dosed you with.” Artie gave Bartholomew a reassuring smile. “Which means that there’s a way to counter whatever they did to you. Maybe not a foolproof method, but if there’s a start, we can work with it.” He stifled a cough and wrapped his coat tighter around his body. “Now. This doctor, what can you tell me about him?”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Talking with Bartholomew had Artie wishing fervently for his lab back aboard the Wanderer. He wasn’t sure what chemicals this doctor was working with, but he would find out and between him and James and a few other noted chemists of his acquaintance, they would get that young man back to his wife. He made his way to the second out building, cautiously keeping to the shadows. He had a feeling this building would have the security that the cell had lacked. He was surprised to see light creeping faintly over one of the windowsills. As quietly as he could, he moved towards the curtained window and settled in to listen. He smiled at the rough, guttural sound of German coming from inside. At least it was a language he knew.

“//This is most promising, Herr Donovan,”// the man spoke to his unseen audience. “//The serum worked exactly as expected. There were no ill effects for nearly eight hours. The inoculation process seems successful. The handler would hardly need that long to deliver his target and get to safety. And if he did, we could simply use the suppressant in addition to the inoculation and he would be safe. And you may tell Herr Follard that the antidote is nearly complete. With a few more tests, I should be able to perfect it to his satisfaction.”// 

“Mr. Follard will be pleased.”

Artie recognized the second voice, Follard’s foreman, George Donovan.

“He would be more pleased if the antidote were complete rather than ‘nearly complete’,” Donovan continued, his disdain for the other man obvious in his voice. “The investors will be here for the final demonstrations tomorrow evening and they will be most anxious to know they can purchase from Mr. Follard without fear for their own lives.”

“Ja, Herr Donovan,” the doctor answered, “//Herr Follard will have his demonstration. Do not fear. They have had the demonstration of the chemical shells at the fort. They have heard the reports of illness from the town and seen the results of our Death Angel. Herr Follard has already dosed the actor with the first part of the Assassin formula, so he need only administer the activator tomorrow before the performance to provide the final demonstration they requested.”// 

Artie felt the blood drain from his face as the implications of the statement became clearer. He stifled a cough and strained to hear as much of the continuing conversation as he could.

“//If the buyers do not accept Herr Follard’s offer after all they’ve seen, they are not as intent on their revenge as Herr Follard has been lead to believe,//” the doctor intoned dismissively. “//That will not change whether we have a completed antidote or a ‘nearly completed’ antidote.”//

“Watch your tone, _Herr_ Schmidt,” Donovan snapped. “Just because the boss trusts you, doesn’t mean the rest of us do.”

“Then you are a wise man, indeed, Herr Donovan,” Schmidt responded mildly in his heavily accented English. 

The sound of clinking glass followed by a sharp intake of breath made Artie shiver.

“Remember well who is the laboratory master. Gute nacht, Herr Donovan. Sleep well.”

Artie moved deeper into the shadows. He watched as Donovan left the laboratory, moving quickly and with several glances back at the unassuming building. Artie didn’t blame him.

“//Short sighted fool,//” Schmidt muttered just loud enough for Artie to hear. “//Even Herr Follard has no idea what power he holds. But he will.//”

Artie waited until Donovan was well and truly gone before even thinking about moving. He needed to get this new information to Jim, and he couldn’t risk leaving the compound without a better understanding of what he’d been given and how. While part of him hoped they had been speaking of another actor, in his heart he knew they had not been. Taking a calming breath, Artie moved away from the shadows and headed back to the bunkhouse, hoping that he was not endangering the others simply by being there.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Artie settled into the far bunk and tried to think when he might have been exposed to the ‘Assassin Formula’ Schmidt had mentioned. Follard had dosed him at some point, but when? He rubbed at his temples, a light headache building. He wondered if he’d have to cancel the chess rematch he’d agreed to…

The chess game. 

He growled under his breath. He’d fallen for that set up like an amateur. He wasn’t sure exactly how Follard had dosed him, but he was certain that the chess game was _when_ it had been done then. No one else had taken ill so far, and the other victims seemed to have taken ill very quickly. However, if he disappeared now Follard would have to find another ‘example’ for his buyers, and Artie wasn’t about to do that to any of Patrick’s troop. So, time for option number two – sending someone else to alert Jim and bring in the cavalry. 

His musings were interrupted by the return of his bunkmates. Patrick escorted Marie in and pulled back the sheet they’d used to allow the girls some privacy. Portia and two other women followed behind chatting quietly. Portia smiled and ushered the others into their side before coming to sit beside Artie. A delicate hand settled against Artie’s forehead and he did his best not to pull away from the welcome touch. Brown eyes widened, hurt. “Sorry,” he apologized, “But, I may not be safe.”

“What do you mean, Artie?” Portia asked quietly. “Are you feeling worse?”

Artie gave a mirthless chuckle. “No, but I fear I will be soon enough.” He motioned Patrick over and urged the pair of them to take a seat across from him. “I found out what Follard is up to and I need to get word back to Jim.”

“Easily done,” Patrick reassured easily. He looked to Portia. “Tell the girls. As soon as Michael and the others finish tear down, we’re having a troop meeting to see who’ll accompany our ‘poor, ill Horatio’ home.”

“David would be a good choice,” Portia offered. “He’s only doing sets and curtain tomorrow and I could easily take those over. That way it wouldn’t even really affect the performance.” 

Patrick smiled at the suggestion, turning back to Artemus with a grin. “With you already being ill, it won’t seem odd to have someone ‘take you back home’.” 

“Unfortunately,” Artie countered, “that’s not really an option.” At their confused looks he quickly filled them in on what he’d learned during his explorations. “If I didn’t think Follard would track everyone down, I’d send the entire troop out of harm’s way this very evening,” Artie admitted. 

Patrick chuckled. “Do you think any of us would go?” He reached out and patted Artie’s leg. “You know what we’ve been through, Artie. What the troop has survived and done through the war and after. They know and respect you, my friend. They wouldn’t let you face this alone.”

“Can’t blame a man for trying,” he admitted with a rueful grin. “But I still need to get this information back to Jim, which is where you come in, my dear.” He turned and looked at Portia. “I need you to go to Jim and let him know what’s happening.” 

“Why me?” Portia questioned. “Why not Marie or one of the others?”

Artie ticked off the reasons on his fingers. “One, Follard has already written you and several of the girls off as non-threatening, so if he notices you’re gone, he’s less likely to start looking for you immediately. Two, you’re one of the few in that list not on stage tomorrow, so Follard won’t miss you as quickly as some of the others. Three, you know Jim and Jim knows you. He’ll trust you. And most importantly,” he reached out and undid the satin ribbons holding back Portia’s chestnut curls, ruffling them out of their carefully pinned perfection. ”If they do miss you and start an immediate search, they’ll be looking for an elegant, sophisticated young lady.” He playfully tapped the end of Portia’s nose. “Not a rough and tumble cowboy who’s been on the trail for days on end.”

“I… I’m not sure…” Portia stammered.

Artie cupped the flushed cheek. “You can do this, Portia. I have faith in you and so do the others. You need to get to Jim and let him know what’s happening before Follard is able to finish his plans.”

“I can’t.”

“You can,” Artie countered firmly. “Follard’s made a crucial mistake in underestimating you. Use that to your advantage. Think of him as just another patron who has no idea who he’s dealing with,” Artie urged with a smile full of shared secrets.

Portia nodded, sighing. “You’ll keep Marie and the others safe?”

Artie nodded, as did Patrick. “You know I will,” Artie reassured.

“And _you’ll_ be careful?”

“Not one unnecessary risk until you return with the cavalry,” he promised easily.

“You’re definition of unnecessary or _mine,_ Artemus?” Portia asked, brown eyes watching Artie closely for any tells that he was obfuscating.

He pressed a hand to his chest and assumed his best affronted expression. “Portia! You wound me.”

The full lips tightened into a grim line. “I’ll wound you worse if I come back here and you’ve gotten yourself killed by being stupidly heroic.”

His teasing counter died on his lips as he took in Portia’s clearly distressed visage.

“Yes, I **know** that doesn’t make sense,” Portia snapped, “but it’s the truth! I’m not ready to lose you.”

He drew the slender body close, resting his cheek against the soft curls until the trembling slowed. He looked at Patrick over the top of Portia’s head and the older man moved to the far side of the room to allow them privacy. “You aren’t going to lose me, sweetheart,” he reassured gently. “I swear to you I’ll keep the others _and myself_ as safe as I can while you’re gone. I’ll be waiting here as unharmed as I can manage while still keeping the other troop members safe. It’s the best I can do.” He wasn’t surprised as warm, soft lips settled over his, Portia pulling him into a kiss full of memories, shared history and affection. He returned the gesture, savoring the welcome and warmth he’d missed sharing with the delightful creature in his arms.

“Don’t make me regret this.”

“I shall endeavor not to,” he pledged solemnly. He moved to his bunk and withdrew a small bundle of clothing and gear, handing it off to Portia. “The location of the Wanderer is on a paper in the bundle, as is the information Jim will need to move in safely. You’ll need to leave as soon as possible to give you and Jim the best advantage. Whatever Follard is planning, makes its debut tomorrow night, and I’d rather not have the starring role.”

Portia nodded before stuffing a pair of walking boots into the bundle and ducking under the sheet to say goodbye to Marie. 

Patrick rejoined him and they compared observations about Follard and his methods and worked on contingency plans to keep everyone safe until help arrived. Soon a young man in carefully non-descript clothing emerged from behind the curtain with Marie curled daintily into his side. Artie and Patrick nodded to him and he tipped his hat to them before bussing a chaste kiss to Marie’s cheek. “Return safe,” they heard Marie admonish firmly. 

“ _Safe mayst thou wander, safe return again_ ,” 5 Artie uttered softly, holding the young man’s doe brown eyes with his own. 

The young man nodded in acknowledgement and slipped carefully out into the dark.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

“Now I told you, Mr. West ain’t seeing nobody!”

James West shared a concerned glance with Corporal Thompson at the sound of raised voices outside the main train car. He gestured for the young soldier to step back from the table where they’d been comparing information and, with the touch of a switch, the files and notes were covered with a false table top. The corporal nodded, clearly impressed by the ingenious camouflage. He settled away from the door, his scarred hand close to his gun, ready if needed. Jim approved.

“I have to see him, sir,” an oddly familiar voice countered. “It’s urgent.”

“And I told you, Mr. West ain’t available.”

Jim opened the door and stepped out, making sure to stay out of the corporal’s line of fire, just in case. “Is there a problem, Mr. Cobb?”

“Sorry to disturb you, Mr. West,” the engineer apologized, eyes resolutely on the young man at his side. “This youngin seems to think he can just walk up here, pretty as you please, and demand to see you.”

Jim studied the slender young man who stood silently at Orrin’s shoulder. The clothes he wore were worn and dusty and hung too large on his boyish frame. Youngest in the family, Jim surmised, wearing big brother’s hand me downs. The battered hat had clearly seen better days but was obviously well loved and cared for. Oddly, it reminded Jim of a style that Artie tended to favor. The hat shadowed the boy’s face, but the full lips and wide eyes were striking none-the-less, and seemed familiar to Jim in a way he couldn’t quite place. The boy wore no gun belt and carried no obvious weapons, but Jim was cautious all the same.

He nodded to Orrin, who stepped back but didn’t move fully away, ready to step in if needed. “How can I help you, son?” he asked the quiet boy.

The young man held out a carefully folded note. “Artie sent me.”

Jim’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “Did he now?”

The young man’s eyes widened at the tone but the pale hand never swayed, the note held firmly out for Jim to take. Brown eyes flashed defiantly as the boy looked up and met Jim’s eyes. “He did.”

It was that flash of fire that clued Jim in to who faced him now. “Portia?”

The pale cheeks flushed and her eyes darted nervously to scan their surroundings. “Mr. West, please. Not so loud. I don’t think anyone managed to find me, but Artie and the others could be in grave danger if they did.”

“Come on, then. Inside,” Jim urged, moving to assist Portia in to the train car. She nodded her thanks but managed on her own. Jim couldn’t help but smile at the actress’ independence. “Mr. Cobb, please continue your inspection of the train,” he told the older man, “general protocol. Contact the car if you come across any abnormalities.”

“Yes, Sir, Mr. West,” the engineer answered with a knowing smile. “And I’ll have Jedidiah take a closer look at the water intake and some of the upper access doors as well. Never can be too careful with train safety.”

Jim smiled at the seemingly simple remark. “Tell him to be extra careful. Wouldn’t do to have such a fine fire man get hurt unnecessarily.”

“Will do, Sir.” Cobb tipped his hat to Jim and headed back to the engine, to keep watch and make sure no one got to train unobserved.

Satisfied with their safety for the moment, Jim reentered the car, closing and bolting the door behind him. Portia stood just inside the door, her eyes on the large, dark-skinned soldier standing on the far side of the room. “Corporal Thompson may I present Miss Portia…”

“It’s actually Jacob, Mr. West,” Portia interrupted hesitantly.

Jim smiled. “You can drop the role now, Portia,” he reassured her. “You’re safe here and the Corporal is very discrete.”

“No, sir,” she countered again, removing her hat and running long fingers through her short hair. “Portia is who I am when Marie and I are traveling with Mr. Franks. My given name is Jacob Nathaniel Porter.”

Jim was, quite frankly, stunned at the revelation. “Does Artie know?” was the first thought that came to mind.

“Artemus is the one who gave me the name, Mr. West,” Port… no, Jacob said.

Jim struggled with this new knowledge, and the memories of Artemus’ physical ease around Portia when they’d taken the pair out to dinner. He pushed the confusion aside for the moment, focusing on the more immediate problem. “Alright then, Jacob, may I see the note Artie sent?”

The young man handed over the paper but avoided Jim’s gaze. Jim reached out and lifted the dirt smudged face. “Jacob,” he said gently, “I’m glad you’re safe. Why don’t you go wash off some of the trail dust while I see what Artie has to say? We’ll talk more after that. Deal?”

Jacob nodded, moving down the hallway to the washroom without a backwards glance.

Jim watched her… him go. He could see that was going to take a bit of getting used to, but he was determined not to let it interfere with whatever Artie needed from him. He opened the note. // U.S. General Army Order No. 100 has been willfully ignored. Please attend tonight’s performance which will hopefully **not** be my grand swan song. Feel free to bring guests.//

He showed the letter to Corporal Richmond. The soldier’s eyes went wide. “General Order 100 banned chemical warfare, so I assume that means Mr. Gordon has found that elusive proof we’ve been looking for. But what does he mean by his grand swan song?”

“It means that if we don’t hurry,” Jacob answered from the hallway, his brown eyes serious as he looked at the pair of them, “Artie will be dead before morning.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

“Horatio. Please… come join me.”

Artie dredged up his best Horatio Mackaye carefree smile and took the indicated seat next to Enoch Follard. “Good morning, sir,” he greeted the other man. “You are most generous with your morning offerings to a band of poor traveling thespians.” He indicated his well filled plate with a more genuine smile.

“Well,” Follard began with a wry and calculating smile. “There may be a bit of an alternative reason for my largess,” he confessed with a chuckle. “I find people are more obliging on a full stomach – and you, sir, owe me the chance to redeem myself as a master chess player.” He turned in his chair to study Artie more fully. “I was thinking perhaps this afternoon if it wouldn’t interfere too heavily with your rehearsals. 

“I’ll have to check with Monsieur Francois of course,” Artie hedged. He still wasn’t entirely sure how Follard had poisoned him initially and knowing of the evening’s plans he was reluctant to place himself in the same situation. But he knew in order to give Portia time to reach Jim, he needed to keep from arousing Follard’s suspicion. “But I doubt it will be difficult to arrange. Though I warn you, sir, since our last match I’ve been dusting off my long unused skills. So be prepared for challenge.”

Follard’s smile was downright predatory. “I would expect no less, Mr. Mackaye. And rest assured I do enjoy a challenge.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Artie managed to put off the chess game until after a morning full of rehearsals for the evening performance and a leisurely lunch. Once again, Follard watched the first of the rehearsals only to disappear before the end. He didn’t join them for lunch, his butler politely informing the troop that ‘Sir had urgent household business’ to attend to and had asked their forgiveness for being such a poor host. Artie and Patrick exchanged concerned gazes but said nothing.

Lunch sitting heavily in his stomach, Artie stood before the den doors contemplating ways to protect himself without endangering the others. Nothing was forthcoming, so he placed his trust in Jim’s impeccable sense of timing and luck and knocked on the solid door. 

“Come in.”

Artie entered and was ushered into one of the comfortable arm chairs. He was surprised that the chess board was not already set and waiting. “Is this a bad time?”

Follard gave Artie a reassuring smile. “No, not at all.” He settled into the chair opposite and studied Artie for a long moment, index fingers resting lightly against his lips. “I am distressed at something that has come to my attention this afternoon.”

The unease he’d been feeling doubled. “The ‘household business’ that kept you from lunch?” he asked mildly, wishing for something to occupy his hands and his scrambling thoughts.

“In a matter of speaking,” Follard answered just as mildly. “You see, I’ve been planning this evening’s performance for several months, making contacts with other interested parties, establishing rapport with persons who are… rather difficult to persuade to attend any event, let alone something so… cultured as this.”

Artie nodded. “You have put a great deal of effort into these performances,” he agreed, thinking of all the information the General had given them on Follard’s possible activities. “And I know Monsieur Francois and the other performers appreciate your efforts.”

“Come now, Horatio,” Follard chided. “You and I both know that ‘Monsieur Francois’ is no more French than you or I.”

Artie conceded the point gracefully. “That doesn’t make our appreciation any less genuine.”

“Doesn’t it?” Follard’s voice was deceptively friendly, but his green eyes were anything but. “I think you know very well what concerns me. I’ve found that one of your illustrious troop has snuck away in the night like a common thief. Luckily, the lovely lady in question has been found and is being returned as we speak… before she could warn anyone about what she fears is happening here.”

Artie felt a loosening of the band that had been tightening around his chest. If Follard had actually found Portia, he would be using another term entirely. He was trying to play Artie for a fool to see what and how much was known. How delightful. “One of our young ladies?” he feigned surprise. “Whatever would she think needed to be warned for? Yes, there have been some illnesses within the audiences but it’s not as if it’s consumption or influenza. It’s simply issues from the growing chill. But then, some of our younger girls are fairly new to the hardships of a traveling life.”

“Don’t play me for a fool, Mr. Mackaye,” Follard snapped, voice cold and sharp. “Miss Portia could not have eluded my security without assistance, and I know that you and she have a very… close… relationship.”

“I don’t care for what you’re implying, Sir,” Artie growled.

“And I find that I don’t necessarily care, Sir,” Follard shot back.

Artie rose, the picture of insulted gentleman, “If this were not a more civilized time, sir, I would call you out for that remark. As it is, I think I shall simply encourage Monsieur Francois to cancel tonight’s performance and leave post haste.”

Follard let Artie get his hand on the doorknob before speaking again. “I wouldn’t suggest that, Mr. Mackaye, if that truly is your name.”

“Why on earth would you think it’s not my name?” Artie’s voice held just the right amount of indignant confusion even as his mind struggled to find where he had betrayed the masquerade.

“Because you are a good friend of Monsieur Francois,” Follard began, “and Monsieur Francois or should I say, Patrick Franks, is not always what he wishes people to believe he is – nor are those in his employ. You see, Mr. Franks made a bit of a name for himself during the war as a man very good at being in the right place at the wrong time. There were many incidences of valuable property vanishing when the Franks’ Performing Theater came to town – and then reappearing weeks later in the North.”

“That I can’t answer to,” Artie said honestly. “I was not with Monsieur Francois during that time, though if the ‘valuable property’ is what I believe it to be, I _can_ say I would have been happy to assist him free slaves in any way I could.”

“Then you are a bigger fool than I thought.”

“Better a fool than a monster,” Artie answered smoothly.

“I’m not a monster, Horatio,” Follard returned, rising and moving to Artie’s side. “I’m a business man. And slavery and war are very good for business. However,” he continued, forcibly turning Artie around and walking him back to the chairs, “the cost of the war has made many hesitant to try again without… incentive.”

“And you’ve found that incentive, have you?” Artie asked archly.

“Oh, I have indeed.” Follard poured them both drinks, setting them on the small table between them. He perched on the edge of his chair, looking intently at Artie. “Can you imagine how different things would have been if President Lincoln had died earlier in the war? Or if Sherman’s men had begun dying as they raided homes and food stores as they savaged the south on their way to the sea? How about if entire forts and companies were wiped out silently at night by a seemingly ghostly fog? What if a single man could be sent into an area and cause illness and death by his mere presence? How differently would the war have gone, Horatio? How quickly would the fighting spirit of the North have been broken? How powerful could a leader be if he could **predict** the death of his enemies, or call forth God’s wrath to strike down those who opposed him? Who would dare defy such a power?”

“I stand corrected, sir,” Artie said wryly. “You’re not a monster. You’re a madman.”

“No. Not mad,” Follard asserted. “Simply forward thinking.” He took a long sip of his drink. “I’ve harnessed death, Horatio. Those fools in Washington had the power in their hands early in the war but they refused to see its potential. The boys in the South spoke of using cayenne pepper or chloroform to simply incapacitate their enemies, but they never realized how many more options they had.” He smirked. “Did you know that the smoke from burning poison ivy and sumac can burn the lungs? That there are simple chemicals when mixed correctly, burst into flames when exposed to the air – and only spread with water; chemicals that burn the skin but don’t damage the surrounding buildings or weapons, or chemicals that kill and then poison the land for weeks afterwards, bringing death to those unfortunate enough to settle on that ground.”

Artie felt his stomach clench at the fervor in Follard’s voice. “And now you intend to sell those secrets to the highest bidder.”

“Well, some of those secrets anyway,” Follard confirmed, “It never does to give away everything all at once. A good businessman knows to save back important bits to keep the customer coming back for more.”

“Like antidotes and safety measures?” Artie offered mildly.

“I knew you were the smart one, Horatio, which makes me regret choosing you for this demonstration all the more.” Follard sighed, genuinely troubled. “We could have been partners in this.” His green eyes narrowed as he studied Artie. “We could _still_ be partners if you’re willing,” he offered, leaning closer to Artie. “I can give you the antidote to the chemical mixture already running through your veins and together we can choose a new subject from Franks’ rag tag group. You would stand at my side while history is made, or remade as it were. We would be a formidable team.”

Artie chuckled. “Tempting as that is, sir. I shall have to decline.”

“So be it,” Follard accepted sadly. “We could have done great things, Horatio. Now, you will simply serve as one final display for the buyers.”

Artie still wasn’t certain how Follard had dosed him or what to expect from the chemicals in question, but talk of an antidote gave him a bit of hope that all wasn’t already lost. He just needed to buy Portia, and by extension, Jim, time. He had very few options left on that front and so took a page from the Jim West book of insane plans.

He launched himself from the chair, the very picture of ‘panicked victim’. He attempted to dodge Follard’s backhand but misjudged the smaller man’s reach, and his strength. The blow sent him stumbling but he recovered quickly, diving once more at Follard. The struggle was quick and brutal and Artie nearly had the upper hand, until Follard came up from Artie’s strike with a gun in his hand. “I don’t want to shoot you, Horatio, but I will if need be. You needn’t be walking for the demonstration, only awake enough for the crowd to see how quickly the activator works.”

Artie held up his hands in surrender, settling reluctantly back down in the chair. His time would come, he just had to watch for it.

“Wise choice. Donovan!” Follard called out. “Tell the others we’re moving up the time frame,” he instructed when the foreman arrived. “Confine Franks’ people to one of the barns, but bring Franks to me. I want him to have a front row seat for the night’s festivities.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

“Gentlemen,” Follard boomed from the stage, arms spread wide to catch the attention of the crowd. “And ladies,” he amended with a nod towards three rather rough looking women and their attendants. “I know that this is not the evening of entertainment I promised, but I believe many of you will find it more… palatable than the evening of Shakespearean delight originally planned.” He smirked at the smattering of applause and noted which contingents seemed genuinely disappointed. He would do his best to favor those groups, for while he was a bastard, he appreciated those who knew the value of culture. He knew most of the buyers but not all, and while a part of him worried for this oversight, he trusted his lieutenants’ discretion. No one knew of this meeting except those few who had a… vested interest in the proceedings, and even those had only learned of the final arrangements early this morning. It never hurt to be careful.

“Tonight we come to the final demonstration of what is being offered.” He gestured to Donovan who urged Horatio and Franks out onto the stage with the assistance of a rather menacing looking rifle. Both men were as defiant as he had expected and he felt a brief surge of regret at the loss of two such stalwart spirits. But, such was the price of business. Besides, Horatio had been given a more than ample opportunity to join him. He had only himself to blame for what was to come. “My people call this the Assassin Formula,” he began with a smile. “Such fanciful nonsense, but not inaccurate. Imagine if you will, a poison that can be given days, even weeks in advance.” He pointed to Horatio. “Does Mr. Mackaye look unwell?”

He waited for the expected negative responses.

“I assure you, Mr. Mackaye is only a few steps away from death.” He refused to look at Horatio, he hated to waste such a mind as his, but he could not let sentimentality cloud his judgment at this point in the game. “Two days ago he was dosed with the first half of the Assassin Formula. Like Death Angel, the formula presents no symptoms of illness, however, it does not endanger those around the infected. Mr. Mackaye was unaware of any change after being dosed, isn’t that correct, Horatio?”

The infuriating man refused to answer.

Follard stalked to the taller man’s side, kicking him sharply behind the knee. Horatio fell with a muffled grunt but still made no answer. He grabbed a handful of the graying curls and pulled the man’s head back sharply. He leaned in close. “Remember that I still hold all of Franks' little troop and it would take very little to put them here in your place.” Horatio pulled away from him, meeting his eyes with a gaze filled with open hostility. He could live with that. “So I ask you again, Horatio. Did you notice any change?”

“Aside from a sore throat, no,” the actor reluctantly admitted.

He patted the side of the handsome face before turning back to his audience. “Exactly. Nearly undetectable.” He held his hand out and Donovan placed a small container in his palm. “And now for the second part of the formula, the catalyst needed to begin the required reaction.”

He opened the container and blew a bit of the fine dust on the front row of the gathered buyers. Someone yelled, another jumped back, wiping frantically at his clothing and face. Follard laughed. “Nothing to worry about, friends,” he reassured, waiting for the angry yells and amused cat-calls to die down before continuing. “The catalyst is completely harmless to anyone without the initial dose of formula. A person could be coated in this and only develop a mild rash.” He turned and blew a heavy dose into Franks’ face, chuckling as the shyster quickly moved away from Horatio. “And as you can see, even a dose of the catalyst while in close proximity to someone infected has no effect, at least not on the handler,” he chuckled darkly.

“How can we be so sure of that?” a deep voice shouted from the back of the crowd. “I’ve heard tell that not all of your ‘weapons’ work as well as you claim. A fort only half-taken out while several of your own men died? Men supposedly protected from your Death Angel who died several hours after setting loose the serum.”

Follard’s eyes narrowed as he searched for the man speaking. Several other buyers turned, asking questions of their own of the speaker. Follard cursed his short stature and angrily motioned one of the other guards to go find who was speaking.

“Early miscalculations,” he reassured. “Wind shift and unexpected immunities. Things I’ve learned to compensate for and that I’ll teach you for a modest fee after purchase.”

“Teaching ain’t much use if’n ya end up dead ‘cause the wind turned,” one of the women yelled. “And I’m not sure I _trust_ your ‘teaching’, Follard.”

“I assure you, Mistress Griffith, I gain nothing by the death of clients,” he countered. “And with a few simple precautions, you’ll be safe as houses using my products.”

He could tell he was losing the crowd, but the evening wasn’t over yet and he did have a few aces up his sleeve. He nodded to Donovan who drug Horatio to his feet and brought him forward. However, before he could gather enough of the catalyst powder to effectively dose Horatio, a loud explosion shook the ground and one of the outbuildings went up in flames.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Jim smiled as the first explosion sounded at the far side of Follard’s compound. Thompson nodded to Jim and added his own deep voice to the rising chaos. “Isn’t that where your stores are, Follard? What the hell are you playing at?”

“It’s a trap,” another voice cried out. “He brought us here to kill us all!”

Jim waited for the cry to be taken up by a few of the other men and in the resulting confusion began his move toward the stage and his at-risk partner. He trusted that Jacob and the two young soldiers who’d gone with him had managed to free the other members of Franks’ acting troop. Luckily, their inside source had seen where the others had been taken and Jim had set the three off to free them. While he was sure Jacob could handle himself in a fight, especially if it was to protect Marie, Jim was still having trouble _not_ seeing the waiflike Portia every time he looked at Jacob. Now all he had to do was rescue Artie and Franks, keep Follard from getting that catalyst anywhere near Artie until they could counteract whatever Follard had already dosed Artie with, and manage to keep from getting killed while they waited for the cavalry to arrive and help secure the area. Easy.

He watched as a few of the bolder buyers stormed the stage and confronted Follard, who didn’t waiver in his insistence that everything was fine. With Follard’s attention no longer focused on Artie, Jim made his move. Follard’s man attempted to stop him from gaining the stage, but a few well-placed punches left the man sprawled in the dirt, unconscious. Jim wasted no more time moving to his partner’s side. He smiled at Artie as he pulled him aside and handed him a gun.

“I was wondering when you were going to show up,” Artie chided with a grin, checking the weapon he’d been handed.

“Had to make a few stops first,” he teased. “Wouldn’t do to show up inappropriately dressed.”

Artie made a show of checking out Jim’s less than pristine outfit. “Not sure I approve of your sartorial choices, Jim, my boy.”

Jim ducked as Artie threw a punch and took out a man coming up behind Jim. “Well,” he hedged, turning so he and Artie were back to back as the crowd’s panic turned to anger as the sound of soldiers reached their ears. “My invitation arrived a bit late, so I didn’t have as much time to prepare as I normally like.” He punched out another panicking buyer. “I’m afraid I had to make use of your closet.”

Artie turned, eyes wide. “I thought that vest looked familiar.”

Jim chuckled at the playfully indignant tone. “Well. It seemed appropriate for the occasion.”

“There is that.”

“ARTEMUS!” Patrick Franks’ voice sounded sharply over the general din of the crowd. 

Jim turned in time to see Follard closing on them, a bottle of _something_ in his hand. Jim didn’t think it looked like the activator bottle from before, but he wasn’t willing to take any chances. He pushed Artie behind him as Follard threw the bottle. The fragile glass shattered as it hit Jim’s chest, the contents starting to smoke almost immediately.

“Damn it, James!” Artie growled as he realized what had happened. He dropped the gun and quickly tore the vest and shirt off Jim, throwing it to the side as it burst into flames.

Jim realized their mistake a heartbeat too late. He watched with mounting horror as Follard’s grimace turned feral and his eyes locked on Artie.

 _“O villain, villain, smiling, damned villain!”_ 6 Follard growled as he threw a second vial at them.

Artie, the damned fool, stepped into the attack, deliberately putting himself between Jim and whatever Follard had thrown. The sound of glass breaking broke the unnatural paralysis and Jim’s gun was up and firing before he was even truly conscious of the motion. Even as he watched Artie falling to his knees in pain, his hand never wavered and his shots hit true. The first hit Follard in the shoulder, sending the little man stumbling backwards, eyes wide with shock. He recovered quickly, though, so Jim shot again, taking out Follard’s knee and sending him tumbling to the floor. 

Sure that Follard was down for the moment, Jim went to Artie’s side. Corporal Thompson was already on his knees beside Artie’s shaking body. “Mr. West. I need water, a full canteen or a bucket,” he ordered as he pulled on his leather gloves and pulled off his neck cloth. Jim didn’t wait, simply moving to do as asked. Thompson had experience with the kinds of liquid death Follard was using. 

He’d seen a pump just to the side of the stage and made quick work of filling the waiting bucket with the chill water. He hurried back to Artie’s side, confused to see Thompson slowly and carefully removing Artie’s clothing when they were obviously causing Artie a great deal of pain. He reached out to assist only to have his hands blocked by Thompson. The dark-skinned man handed him the discarded neck cloth. “Wet this down and lay it over Mr. Gordon’s nose and mouth. We have to keep the fumes from getting into his lungs.”

Jim did as he was told, soaking the cloth and then carefully placing it over Artie’s face. Chocolate eyes, clouded with pain, locked onto his and he found his hand moving to card through the tangled curls. “Hold on, Artie. You’re gonna be fine.” The eyes closed and Jim could feel the way Artie leaned into his touch. He turned his gaze back to Thompson who was still being far too delicate with the poison coated clothing. “He has other clothes,” he snapped.

Thompson’s large hands never faltered in their deliberate movements. “Less liquid he gets on his skin, less damage it’ll do.”

Jim remembered the mass of scars he’d seen on Thompson’s hands when they’d been talking about the types of weapons they might be facing when they confronted Follard. He nodded. “What can I do?”

“We need to know what was in that vial. More information we have, better chance we have of stopping it.” He finally eased the vest and shirt from Artie’s torso, taking extra care to protect Artie’s hands as he pulled Artie completely free of the contaminated cloth. “Don’t touch this with your bare hands.” He pointed at Artie’s chest and neck where dark red skin was already starting to blister and weep. “The damn stuff clings so it’ll do more damage.”

Jim nodded his understanding, tugging on his gloves and helping Thompson ease the clothing out from under Artie. He glanced over to where Follard was still curled up on the stage. He gathered up the shirt and vest and moved into Follard’s line of sight. He crouched down, the clothing held carefully in his gloved hands. “I need information, Enoch,” he said, voice calm and dangerous. “And you’re going to give it to me.”

“Go to hell,” Follard ground out.

“Oh no, Enoch. I can call you Enoch, can’t I?” Jim started mildly. He shifted the bundle of cloth in his hands closer to Follard. “You see. You’ve done something to my partner, and I need to know what it is. So I’m going to ask nicely just this once; what did you dose him with, what was in that damned container, and how do we counteract them?”

“Not saying a word, Agent,’ Follard spit. He screamed as Jim put his gloved hand over the bullet-hole in his leg.

Jim left it there for a few more breaths before removing it. “See now, I was hoping I wouldn’t have to resort to this.” He shook his head, tsking at the sweating weapon’s dealer. He took the shirt and draped it over Follard’s leg, just below the open wound. “I’m betting this stuff will hurt like blazes when I put it around that bullet wound. I mean, it’s the most cloth I have available right now and I’d hate to have you bleed to death just because I forgot to wrap that wound.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

Jim’s face was stone, the face of a soldier used to seeing the horrors of combat. “There’s a lot I’d dare to save Artemus,” he corrected, voice like ice. “And this is just the beginning.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The next few hours passed in a blur of frantic activity and nerve-wracking helplessness. The soldiers secured the compound, rounding up both the buyers and Follard’s men and taking stock of the various weapons and chemicals they found. Follard himself proved much tougher than he looked, sneering at Jim and refusing to answer any questions. He laughed at Jim’s demands to know the contents of the vial he’d thrown or what might assist them in easing Artie’s pain. Even through his obvious pain and fear, Follard simply maintained that even if ‘Horatio’ survived, he would be worthless to ‘whatever unholy master he served’. 

Jim was ready to resort to further violence when Jacob stepped in, sending Jim off to help Thompson tend to Artie. Jim didn’t ask how Jacob had gotten them the information they needed, but he could see the toll it had taken on the young man. Marie held tightly to Jacob’s hand as he told them where to find the counter agent to the liquid from the vial and she refused to leave his side after. The counter agent did ease Artie’s pain – for a time. However, the ease hadn’t lasted, leaving them scrambling for answers. The best they could gather, with Artie’s chemistry knowledge, Thompson’s previous experience with similar compounds, and what Jacob had gathered from Follard was that the Assassin Formula already in Artie’s system was somehow blocking the full effects of the counter agent. It was an unexpected reaction and one they didn’t have the background to deal with. They needed someone with knowledge of both chemicals and how they might interact with one another.

Luckily, Artie happened to know just the man.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

“Herr Schmidt?” Jim asked, stepping into the makeshift cell the scientist had been placed in.

Wide, watery eyes slowly turned towards Jim. “Ja?”

“My name is Jim West and I’m here to offer you a choice,” he began without preamble. The older man nodded, waiting solemnly for Jim to continue. “The man you worked for has been turned over to the authorities and will be spending a very long time in their company. As I’m sure you are aware, his weapons have been used to injure many innocent people.” Jim faltered as the scientist let out a divisive laugh.

“Innocent people?” the scientist growled in his heavily accented English. “I am well aware of his actions towards ‘innocent people’. I need not you to tell me!”

“Then you must see the importance of counteracting what he’s done.”

“What have I been doing?” he shouted. “//My daughter lies in one of Herr Follard’s rooms, sleeping like the dead, unable to waken. Follard keeps her hidden so I will work for him on his poisons. So I work slow for him while trying to find a way to heal her. I am close. So very close.”

Jim was at a loss. “I’m sorry. I don’t understand,” he admitted.

“He said he’s been trying to find a way to heal his daughter,” Artie answered from the doorway.

“Artemus!” Jim scolded. “You aren’t supposed to be out of bed.”

Artie smirked. “But it’s a good thing I _was_ out of bed, isn’t it?” He leaned against the doorway and studied the scientist. “//Herr Schmidt. I think we can be of use to one another if you’re willing.//”

“//Let me hear your terms,//” Schmidt hedged, eyes narrowing as he studied Artie’s pale face. “//and we’ll see if I am willing. But I make no promises. I’ve already had a deal with one devil, and I’m reluctant to enter into another without all the information.//”

“//Very wise, sir,//” Artie acknowledged before taking a seat and explaining just what they needed from Herr Schmidt and what his compensation would be. 

Schmidt thought for a long moment before replying. “//I will have my daughter returned to me and I will need access to my lab. And I will need an assistant.//”

Artie smiled. “//That can be arranged.//” He held out his hand to the scientist. “//Say hello to your new assistant.//”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

“Corporal Thompson! Corporal Thompson!”

Thompson and Jim both turned at the frantic call. “Private Scott, report!” Thompson ordered calmly, already moving towards the other soldier.

“It’s Mr. Gordon, Sir. Dr. Schmidt needs assistance, quickly.”

Jim was moving before the Private had finished speaking. Scott had been assigned to protect Schmidt and Artie as they worked to finish an antidote to the Assassin Formula that both Artie and Dr. Schmidt’s daughter had been dosed with. Last Jim had checked on them, they had been ‘close to a breakthrough’ according to Artie, so Jim had left them to it. Artie had confided to Jim early on that Schmidt had been very close to an antidote that should work not only for his daughter and Artie, but for the General’s son-in-law as well. All Schmidt needed was a new perspective and Artie had been pretty sure he could provide just that. Jim wondered now if he shouldn’t have stayed to keep Artie from taking his usual ‘acceptable risks’ while searching for that cure. Surely he wouldn’t have been that careless with his own health.

Jim snorted at the thought. He knew that many believed that _he_ was the reckless one of the pairing. But those people had never had to deal with Artie on the trail of a scientific breakthrough. Of _course_ Artie would have put the health of others before his own, especially since one of those needing the antidote was an innocent little girl currently wasting away in a borrowed bedroom.

He broke into a run the minute he was out the door, Thompson hot on his heels. Thompson’s longer legs quickly had the soldier pulling ahead and he was already on his knees beside Artie when Jim broke through the door. Jim watched helplessly as Thompson pulled Artie’s thrashing body close, keeping Artie’s head from knocking against the floor. Broken glass littered the floor around the older man and a metal hypodermic lay innocently on the table nearby.

“//FOOL!//” Schmidt yelled, frantically searching through the bottles and papers on the table. “//I told you it wasn’t ready. We didn’t know if it was safe. Why? Why would you risk this?//” He looked up at Jim, cringing away as Jim moved closer. “I turned away only a moment,” he pleaded. “Never did I think he would do this. Never.”

“What happened? What did he do?” Jim asked, forcing himself to remain calm, to not frighten the panicked scientist any further.

“The antidote,” he breathed deeply, clearly struggling to find the words to explain. “Nearly ready it was, and a test was needed. I told Herr Gordon it was dangerous, to take care. He asked me to find the last notes we had. I turned away, searching.” He ran trembling fingers through his hair, glancing over to where Artie was still jerking in Thompson’s hold. “I hear breaking glass and turn to see him fall.” He turned frightened eyes on Jim. “Never did I ask for this. Never.”

“I know,” Jim reassured. “This is just… Artie. What can we do to help him?”

“//We can pray.//”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

“Jim, you should rest.”

Jim shook his head, not taking his eyes off Artie’s too still form. 

A delicate hand settled on his shoulder. “You won’t do him any good if you get ill waiting for him to wake up. Both Doctor Matthews and Aaron think the fever’s a good sign. Means his body’s trying to burn out the sickness. Long as we keep it from getting too high…”

Jim turned and looked at Jacob. “Aaron?”

The young actor blushed. “Corporal Thompson. Did you know he helped in the field hospitals during the war and that before he and his family escaped to the North his Master was working on similar chemical weapons?”

Jim nodded. “We spoke of it when he brought me the files from General Marcum.”

“Then I think I’d trust him when he says Artemus has a good chance of pulling through.” Jacob reached out and laid his hand over Artie’s. “You and I both know what a stubborn bastard Artemus can be when things look bad. If anyone can pull through this, it’s him.”

Jim had to chuckle at the matter of fact assessment of Artie’s personality. “There is that.” He leaned back in the chair a moment. “Has Schmidt made any progress?”

“He thinks he’s found the common factor in all of the formulas and how to combat them. He thinks that it’s just the amount of chemicals in Artemus’ body that caused the extreme reaction.” Jacob turned and stared at Jim. “He’s still worried that you’re going to shoot him for letting Artemus get hurt.”

“No. This was all Artie,” Jim admitted.

Jacob nodded in agreement, sharing a knowing smile with Jim.

“You know,” Jim started conversationally. “I never have been told how you and Artie met – or about ‘Portia’.”

Jacob pulled over a second chair and settled beside Jim. “Portia was actually Artemus’ idea. When Mr. Franks found Marie she was… well, she’d been badly hurt and left to die. She didn’t feel safe on her own and didn’t trust that the girls would be strong enough to protect themselves, let alone her, if they were attacked. For some reason she trusted Mr. Franks, Artemus and me. Artemus was already planning on leaving to go to war and Mr. Franks didn’t want to cause Marie more problems by making it seem like he was ‘favoring’ her. So that left me.

“I stepped into the role of protector for her like Artemus had done for me so many years before. Unfortunately, while the troop was aware of the situation and didn’t think anything of me staying in Marie’s room, a lot of the places we performed did.” Jacob sighed, shaking his head. “I’d come to love her too much to risk her reputation that way, but I didn’t want to leave her alone. Artemus knew that I’d spent a lot of time playing women’s roles in the theater since I’m so ‘small and pretty’, and knew I’d fooled a lot of people with the acts. So he suggested ‘Portia’. Marie and Portia sharing a room are much more acceptable than Marie and Jacob sharing a room. The members of the troop know and when we go into new places or places where Marie doesn’t feel safe, I become Portia.” Jacob smiled shyly at Jim. “Someday I hope to convince her to marry me, convince her that her past doesn’t matter because I love her. But until then, I’m content to be there for her as much as she’ll let me.”

Jim nodded. “You’re a good man, Jacob. I can see why Artie’s so fond of you.” 

Artie shifted on the bed, growing restless. Jim immediately refreshed the cool compress and wiped Artie’s face, shoulders and chest. Jacob did the same, wiping down Artie’s arms and hands while whispering gentle endearments to him.

Fever clouded brown eyes opened, Artie’s face turning towards Jacob’s figure. “Sweet Jacob,” Artie murmured, his hand clutching at the younger man’s. “ _Do not fall in love with me,_ ” he whispered. “ _For I am falser than vows made in wine._ ” 7

Jacob smiled sweetly, leaning down and pressing a familiar kiss to Artie’s forehead. “ _I cannot: but I love thee; none but thee; and thou deserves it_ , 8 my dear protector,” Jacob soothed. “Rest now. You are safe.” 

Artie gave Jacob a tender smile and closed his eyes, his body falling once more into a restless sleep.

“The two of you are close,” Jim observed softly.

“We are,” Jacob confirmed. “You have to understand, James. Artemus kept a young, foolish boy from making a mistake that would have been the death of him.”

“You?”

Jacob nodded. “I was so young and naïve when Artemus found me. I was just starting in the theater when a gentleman offered to serve as my ‘patron’ if I so desired. I’d heard some of the older actresses talk about how wonderful it was to have a patron who took care of them, so I was planning to say yes.” Jacob blushed, reaching out and brushing his fingers lightly over Artie’s cheek. “Luckily for me, Artemus was filling in for one of the primary performers that night and overheard. He could see I had no idea what the man was offering and so he… intervened.”

Jim raised his eyebrow, silently urging Jacob to continue.

“He stepped forward, wrapped a possessive arm around my shoulders and told the man that I already _had_ a patron and had no need for another.” He chuckled at the memory. “I wasn’t sure what had happened but followed Artemus back to his dressing room without protest. He sat me down and explained exactly what the man had been expecting and then spent the next two hours holding me and telling me I was safe and that he wouldn’t let anyone hurt me.”

“Were you and he…” Jim stalled, uncertain how to ask what part of him didn’t want to know.

“Are you certain you want to know?” Jacob asked, brown eyes sharp as he studied Jim’s face. “Artemus cares a great deal about your opinion of him, Mr. West. I’ll not endanger that opinion with stories that are not mine to tell.”

Jim nodded, eyes moving unconsciously to Artie’s ashen face. “I know his life’s not been the most conventional, Jacob and I’ve never held it against him. I don’t know of anything you could tell me that would change how much respect and affection I have for him.” The honesty of the statement surprised even him, but it was the truth – a truth he hadn’t even realized until he’d said it aloud.

The silence stretched between them, the only sound the rasp of Artie’s labored breathing. Finally Jacob spoke. “He was a perfect gentleman,” he began. “He taught me about acting and building a believable character for the stage. How to read an audience and adjust your performance to gain the best response from them. He was more than a mentor, more than a father, more than a protector. He was… everything to a lonely, frightened boy who’d never had anything to lose.” The young man smiled. “He was so gentle with his refusal when I kissed him the first time I couldn’t even be embarrassed. He instead introduced me to a very sweet woman who… taught me.” Jacob chuckled and brushed his fingers once more through Artie’s hair. “He was always looking out for me. He still does. He’s a very special man, James.”

Jim met Jacob’s gaze easily. “Yes. Yes he is.”

“And so are you.”

Jim looked away, uncertain how to respond or how to take the look in the young man’s eyes.

“Please go and get some sleep,” Jacob urged once more. “I’ll stay with him. He won’t be alone. He’ll need your strength when he wakes up, which means you need to take care of yourself now.”

Jim sighed, unable to contradict Jacob’s assertion. “I’ll just be across the hall,” he conceded, reluctantly giving up his place at Artie’s bedside.

“I’ll call for you if anything changes,” Jacob reassured. “Go. Rest.”

Jim nodded and with one last look at Artie’s too still features, he left the room – looking for sleep that was a long time in coming.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

“Aaron!” Jim leaned out in the hall and shouted, half an eye on Artie’s shivering form. The sound of the soldier’s heavy footsteps had Jim returning to his partner’s side. “Hold on, Artie. Just hold on.”

The corporal burst into the room, taking in the scene with a field medic’s eyes. “It’s all right, Mr. West,” he reassured. “From what Dr. Schmidt has said, this was to be expected.” He moved to the other side of the bed, resting the back of his hand against Artie’s forehead. “It’s the body’s final attack against the chemicals, trying to burn them out. We just need to get his fever down so it doesn’t burn his brain out in the process. We need the big tub filled with warm water. I know the others have kept it ready, now they just need to get it warm.” He pulled the blankets off Artie before looking up at Jim. “Now, Mr. West,” he ordered. “I’ll bring him along shortly.”

Jim nodded and took off to do as he was told. The tub was, indeed, half-filled and over the fireplace hung a large pot of steaming water. The maid looked up as Jim came in and immediately went to the pot and started ladling out the hot water into more manageable containers. Without a word, she handed the first bucket off to Jim and started in on the next. Jim knew his job, and was grateful for the chance to actually do something _useful_.

The water was just warming when Aaron Thompson came in carrying Artie’s blanket wrapped form in his arms. “We’re gonna need towels and blankets,” the soldier said evenly, nodding in approval as the maid hurried to fulfill the request. “Is the water warm, Mr. West?”

Jim tested the water, nodding. “Just a bit above body warm. That good?”

“Perfect.” He set Artie down and carefully unwrapped the blanket, revealing Artie’s naked form. “I’m gonna need you to stay with him while I go and get some oils to put in the water and a few smaller clothes to wipe him down with. Then I’m gonna help the maids change out the bed. He’s starting to sweat, which is a good sign, it means the fever may be starting to break. Dr. Schmidt said to keep the sheets dry and clean in case Mr. Gordon’s sweat contains traces of the chemicals that could be reabsorbed.”

Jim looked up, startled at the idea.

“It’s a slim chance,” Thompson reassured. “But I don’t want to risk it when we’re so close to getting him healthy.”

“Of course,” Jim agreed. He watched as Thompson carefully lowered Artie into the water, ready to assist as Artie began to shift and fight. “Easy, Artie,” he soothed, catching his partner’s hands. “Just getting you cooled down. You’re fine.”

Hazy brown eyes opened and locked on Jim’s face. “James?”

“Yep.”

“Why’s the water so damned cold?” Artie asked, clearly confused.

“Water’s not cold, Artie,” he reassured. “You’ve got a fever and we’re trying to get it down.”

“Oh.” Artie blinked. “Fever?” He searched Jim’s face. “Follard’s drugs?” he finally asked.

“Partially,” Jim hedged. “The other part was you being a hard-headed idiot.” 

Artie’s eyes narrowed in confusion as he slowly relaxed back in the tub. He was obviously trying to put the pieces together and struggling. Finally, the brown eyes widened and he looked at Jim in almost comical contrition. “The counter agent.”

“The counter agent,” Jim confirmed. “And as soon as you’re well enough to remember it, you and I are going to have a long discussion about your tendency to disregard your own safety.”

“Learned from the best,” Artie countered tiredly with a smug smirk.

“Which means you should leave it to the experts,” Jim teased.

Artie nodded, eyes slowly lowering. “I’ll take that under advisement,” he offered back in a low, slurred voice. “Tired,” he breathed.

“Then just relax, old friend,” Jim urged. “I’ve got you. You’re safe.”

“Always am with you.”

Jim was surprised by the admission and how quickly Artie relaxed in an unfamiliar situation. A soft cloth being pressed into his hand startled him from his contemplation. He looked up to find Thompson standing beside the tub carrying towels and a jar.

“This is a scrub that Dr. Matthews and Dr. Schmidt suggested. It’s mild but be careful with it around the still healing blisters.” He opened the jar and placed it beside Jim. “Wet the cloth, pour a small amount of the scrub into it and then wrap the cloth closed. Use it like soap over his whole body. It should help.” He took another bucket of water and placed it beside the fireplace. “I’ll come get you later. The more time he can soak in the warmth, the better for him in the long run.”

Jim nodded, attention already focused on the relaxed body of his ill partner. He was methodical in his attention, carefully scrubbing around the injured skin, surprised by the light film the scrub left behind. He used his cupped hand to sluice water over Artie’s too warm skin, smoothing it along with his bare hand. He was surprised at how natural it felt to run his hand down a flat, hair covered chest; to spend long moments smoothing the damp cloth over a distinctly masculine hand. Perhaps it was simply because it was Artie’s chest and Artie’s hand, and Jim couldn’t help but wonder what that said about him. He shoved the thought to the side and concentrated on his partner. It became almost meditative, the repetitive action of scrub and rinse soothing, the feel of Artie’s warm skin a reaffirmation that his partner was still alive.

It was oddly intimate, caring for his partner like this. They’d seen each other naked before, tended each other’s wounds, helped the other dress when he was too injured to dress himself. They’d bathed together when on the trail, shared a bedroll when the night was colder than they’d expected. But never had it seemed so personal before. But somehow, that felt natural as well, as if all their time together, the ease they had built between them, was simply leading them to this new, deeper level of connection and trust. Jim could live with that. He scrubbed down Artie’s legs and feet, moving to the far side of the tub to have an easier time reaching the right side of the solid frame. He smiled as he washed over the intricate dragon that curled around Artie’s arm, remembering the circumstances that led to the oddly fitting mark. A symbol of courage and protection, it couldn’t have been more appropriate.

Jim added more hot water to the tub, smiling at the way Artie seemed to relax into the warmth. He moved back to his original position and carefully eased Artie forward, shifting to take Artie’s weight against his own chest. Artie sighed and leaned heavily against Jim’s shoulder. “I’ve got you, Artie,” Jim reassured with a fond smile. He picked up the cloth once more and began to run it over the broad, scarred back. He knew the story behind nearly every mark and scar, having patched a few of the wounds himself. He rinsed the film away, taking his time to work at some of the tighter muscles in the strong shoulders, earning another soft sigh from his partner. He moved his attention lower, his hand dipping under the water to work at Artie’s lower back and hips.

Artie shifted as Jim scrubbed his lower back, moaning softly and pressing back into the touch. “Jim,” he breathed, nuzzling against Jim’s neck a moment before stilling once more.

He shifted Artie so the older man was once more leaning against the side of the tub. “Almost done, my friend, then it’s back to bed where you can finish healing.” He took a deep, steadying breath and reached once more under the water to tend to Artie’s more intimate parts. He was careful as he slid the cloth over and between firm thighs. He could feel the heat of Artie’s body, hotter than the surrounding water and oddly vulnerable.

Artie shifted into the touch, moaning softly as the move pressed him more firmly against Jim’s arm. “Jim. Please,” he groaned, eyes closed and head resting lax against the metal edge of the tub.

Jim could feel Artie’s cock firming as his partner’s body seemed to move of its own accord, languid little thrusts that rubbed him against Jim’s trapped arm. Jim found he had no desire to move, to break the intimacy of the moment. Instead, he settled closer to the tub, wrapping his free arm around Artie’s shoulders. He smiled when Artie’s breath hitched at the contact and the older man pressed closer to Jim’s chest.

“Jim.”

“I’m right here, Artie,” Jim reassured. “What do you need?”

Artie’s eyes slowly opened, hazy but aware. “I…” His hips shifted restlessly, as if he was torn between thrusting against Jim’s arm and retreating completely. He cast his eyes over Jim’s face, confused and aroused.

Jim shifted his hand to gently cup Artie’s hardening cock, delighting in the pleasured moan the action elicited. “Whatever you need, Artie. It’s okay.”

“I’m going to die aren’t I?” Artie asked hesitantly.

It took Jim a moment to work out why Artie was asking that now. When he finally realized his partner’s misconception he worked quickly to correct it. “No, Artie. I’m not doing this because you’re dying.” He formed a loose tunnel with his hand for Artie to thrust into. He smiled at the involuntary thrust and moan his soon-to-be-lover gave at the new contact. “I’m doing this because it’s what I want to do, and what I think you’re wanting too. Is this what you want, Artie?” He wondered if he should feel ashamed of taking advantage of Artie’s less guarded state to ask that question, but he’d learned long ago that time was too precious to waste – and Artie was far too skilled at distraction and redirection for such methods to work any other time. And he needed to know the truth before this went any further.

“Since I first laid eyes on you,” Artie admitted guilelessly.

“Then it’s yours, my dear, precious Artemus,” he soothed. “Take what you need. I’m not going anywhere.”

Artie shook in his arms and Jim feared he was having another episode, until he felt the slide of turgid flesh through the curled palm of his hand. A low moan added to the reality of the moment and Jim tightened his arm around Artie’s shoulders. 

Artie turned his face into Jim’s neck and under the water his fingers twined with Jim’s own and began to move. It was clumsy and Artie’s hand trembled with effort even as he gasped into Jim’s shoulder and quietly begged for more.

Jim obliged, reading Artie’s needs in this as easily as he read his tells in a crisis. He tightened his fingers and began to stroke his partner’s shaft with firm, careful movements, delighting in the soft moans that fell from Artie’s lips. On impulse he leaned in and claimed the full lips with his own, surprised when Artie pulled away.

“Not sure I’m safe,” Artie whispered to him even as he pressed closer to Jim’s body.

“You are, Artie,” he reassured. “We both are.”

Artie nodded before his whole body tightened in Jim’s arms.

“I’ve got you, Artie. I’ve got you.”

Artie whined, coming apart in Jim’s arms as his release hit. The aftershocks left him whimpering into Jim’s shoulder and completely spent. He met Jim’s eyes. “You? You didn’t…”

“It’s not important, Artie,” Jim reassured watching as Artie’s body went boneless. “Rest now,” he urged gently. “It’s nearly over, my friend,” he reassured. “Rest.”

Artie nodded and between one breath and the next, was asleep.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The first thing Artie was aware of on waking was that his head was much clearer and his body didn’t feel like it was on fire. The second thing he became aware of was the familiar sound of Jim’s light snore, which meant the man was sleeping sitting up again. Going from the feel of the unfamiliar bed beneath him, he’d be injured and moved to a medical facility. He was starting to wonder what had happened when it all came flooding back. He bit back a groan half embarrassment, half arousal, as the events of his bath took forefront in his mind. He frantically scrambled for some believable lie to tell James, to soothe over the possibly friendship ending incident.

“Stop overthinking it and go back to sleep, Artie. We’re good.”

He stilled and turned his head toward the sound of his partner’s voice. Jim’s eyes were hidden by his hat, his feet propped in a chair, his arms crossed over his chest. 

The hat was tipped back, revealing calm blue eyes that danced with mischief and shared experience. “Though you’re not getting out of that talk about your lack of self-preservation skills.”

“Of course I’m not,” he said with a cautiously optimistic grimace. “Though that goes both ways, sir.”

Jim nodded in acknowledgement of the jibe. “Fair enough. You wanna sleep a bit more or you ready for visitors and a round of doctoring?”

“Think I’ve slept enough, don’t you?” He paused. “How long?”

“Too long,” Jim answered, perhaps a bit rougher than he intended. Booted feet hit the floor and soon Jim was seated on the bed beside Artie and taking the older man’s hand in his own. “Don’t go scaring me like that again. You understand me? I’m not ready to lose you.”

“Nor I you, Jim.”

Jim smiled, clearly pleased. “Good. Then we understand each other.” He leaned down and claimed a brief, chaste kiss. “Now, I know there’s a couple of people who’ve been waiting very patiently for you to finally decide to wake up. I’ll just let ‘em know you’re awake and let them scold you while I go get the doc.”

“Now, Jim…”

“Nope. You’ve got this coming, fair and square,” he added with a grin. He moved to the door. “Don’t go anywhere.”

“Ha ha.”

“Jacob? Marie? Someone here who wants to see you two,” he called out. “Think you can keep him out of trouble while I go fetch Aaron?”

Artie smiled as the young couple entered hand in hand.

“I think we can manage, Jim.” Jacob answered.

“I’ll be right back,” Jim told them, his eyes firmly on Artie. “Behave yourself.”

“I am the picture of propriety, Jim.”

Jim shook his head in amusement at the comment before leaving Artie alone with the couple. As he closed the door he heard Marie affectionately scolding Artie and the tension in his chest eased. They were going to be fine.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Jim walked out of his bedroom just as Artie finished the message from Washington. “What’s the word, Artie?”

Artie turned in the chair and smiled at the fine picture his lover made in formal dress. “Perfection,” he murmured as quietly as he could, his eyes drinking in the sight.

Jim shook his head at the compliment, still unused to the open affection Artie took every opportunity to bestow on him. “What news from Washington?” he asked again. “Nothing that’s going to interfere with this evening, I hope.”

Artie shook his head. “We are officially off duty for the next week, barring any world ending catastrophes.” Unable to resist any longer, Artie rose and crossed to Jim’s side, wrapping his arms around the younger man and claiming a gentle kiss. Jim didn’t pull away from the embrace, instead tugging Artie closer and claiming a second kiss, this one deeper and more languid. He’d adapted to their new relationship with far more ease than either of them had expected, much to Artie’s delight.

“Sounds like a reason to celebrate to me,” Jim offered with a small, heated smile.

“And there’s even more to celebrate,” Artie offered. “Herr Schmidt’s daughter is awake and recovering well. Washington has already found a place for Schmidt to work and offered him sanctuary for him and his daughter should they need it.” He hoped things worked out well for the German scientist. Without him, he and Jim wouldn’t be where they were now. “Bartholomew Phillips came through the treatment as well and should be home with his wife by Christmas.”

“That’s wonderful,” Jim said honestly. A knock on the door had them reluctantly pulling apart. “It would appear our guests are here, Mr. Gordon,” Jim intoned with mock severity.

“Well, don’t keep them waiting.”

Jim shook his head at his partner’s teasing. He checked who was knocking and yes, it was their dates for the evening. He opened the door, smiling at the two beautifully dressed women. He drew them inside, pressing a kiss to the back of each offered hand. “Marie. Portia. It is a pleasure, as always.”

Artie smiled and offered each of them a drink, unsurprised when they were refused. He hugged them both in turn before moving to Jim’s side once more. “Are you ladies ready for that dinner I owe you?”

Marie nodded. “Of course. And you know you don’t honestly owe us anything, don’t you?”

“I beg to differ,” he said honestly, looking at Jim with open affection. “I owe you everything.”

Jim just had to lean in and kiss him.

“Ah. _The sight of lovers feedeth those in love_ 9 doesn’t it, Marie?”

Marie giggled at Portia’s wry delivery. “Leave them alone, Portia. This is new to them. Let them enjoy it.”

“ _Pray, do not mock me.  
I am a very foolish fond old man,_ ” 10 Artie chided, eyes alive with mirth.

“You are neither foolish nor old, Artemus,” Portia scolded.

Artie held up his hands in acquiescence. “I bow to your kind opinion, Miss Porter. Now, we should leave if we wish to have a leisurely dinner before the theater.”

Marie nodded. “It will be quite strange to be on the other side of the stage for a change, though I am quite looking forward to the change.”

“Then we should go.” He put on his evening coat, offering Artie his as well. After settling the coat on his shoulders he turned to the dark haired waif. “Miss Portia,” Jim said, offering his arm. “Would you do the honor of being my companion for the evening?”

“I would be delighted,” Portia answered, clearly surprised, as she took the offered arm. “Are you certain?”

Jim leaned in and placed a gentle kiss on Portia’s cheek. “ _I would not wish,_ ” he quoted solemnly, “ _Any companion in the world but you._ ” 11 He gave the young actress an embarrassed smile as he glanced tenderly over at Artie. “Well, perhaps one other,” he amended.

“I understand completely,” Portia reassured, brown eyes focused on Marie. “Shall we?”

Artie and Marie watched in bemusement as their respective partners stepped out of the car, chatting like old friends.

Artie settled his coat on his shoulders. “Well, as it appears we have been abandoned by our usual companions,” he began quietly. “Would you settle for a slightly older and more jaded companion for the evening?”

Marie chuckled, a deep, pleasant sound. “With pleasure,” she said, taking the offered arm with a smile.

Artie secured the door and waived a pleasant good night to Orrin. He and Marie joined Jim and Portia and the four started off across the snow-dusted yard, their laughter trailing after them like a welcome song. As the bard observed, “ _Journeys end in lovers meeting._ ” 12 So while their chosen paths would not be easy, they would not walk them alone and that made all the difference in the world.

~fin~

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Merchant of Venice - Act 3, Scene 2
> 
> 2\. Macbeth - Act 5, Scene 5
> 
> 3\. Hamlet - Act 5, Scene 2
> 
> 4\. St. Joshua is the patron saint of Spies, St. Genesius is the patron saint of Actors
> 
> 5\. Cymbeline - Act 3, Scene 5
> 
> 6\. Hamlet - Act 1, Scene 5
> 
> 7\. As You Like It - Act 3, Scene 5
> 
> 8\. The Merry Wives of Windsor - Act 3, Scene 3
> 
> 9\. As You Like It - Act 3, Scene 4
> 
> 10\. King Lear - Act 2, Scene 7
> 
> 11\. The Tempest - Act 3, Scene 1
> 
> 12\. Twelfth Night - Act 2, Scene 3


End file.
